The Argosy — page 333: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

314 A Freak of Fortune. It was a lovely evening in July, 1878, that memorable Exhibition year which for months together transformed the fair city of Paris into a huge caravansary thronged with pilgrims of every degree, and indiscriminately dispensing its somewhat costly hospitalities to all who could afford to pay for them. Even the Faubourg St. Germain, in ordinary times so still and lonely after sunset, displayed an un- usually animated aspect, owing to the influx of foreign and provincial visitors attracted to that transpontine quarter by its’ comparative cheapness. And more than one passing stranger cast an admiring glance on the youthful couple as, on reaching the extremity of the Rue de Tournon, they skirted the Luxembourg, and entered a corner house in the Rue Soufflot. Madam Duvivier, the mother of our heroine, who occupied a small apartment overlooking the Place du Panthéon, was anxiously awaiting their arrival. “JT thought you were never coming, children,” she exclaimed from the top of the staircase, where she had stood sentinel for the last quarter of an hour. “It is past nine, and I do not like Loulse to be out so late.” “Only once in a way, mother dear,” replied the young lady, as she tripped lightly up a flight of steps steep enough to put even a schoolboy’s cimbing powers to the test; ‘‘such a delicious evening, and so refreshing after the heat, that one feels tempted to remain out all night. Besides, you know you can trust me with Maurice. Can she not?” she added, turning towards her companion; and, without waiting for an answer, passed through the open door into a little sitting-room where the table was laid for supper, declaring that she was intolerably hungry. A less partial spectator than Madame Duvivier might have been pardoned for contemplating admiringly the bright-featured, fair-haired damsel, as she gaily did the honours of the modest repast, and rallied the young man who sat beside her on his persistent taciturnity. “You must scold him, mother,” she said. ‘‘ He has been terribly low-spirited all the evening; discontented with his position; the old story, you know, and though I tell him, if he will only have patience, things must improve some day, he won’t believe me.” “YT can’t help it if I am not so sanguine as you are, Louise,” objected Maurice, “but the more I look at the future before me, the blacker it appears. What prospects have I but the same per- petual drudgery month after month, year after year, earning just enough to keep me from starving, but not sufficient for the one object of my existence, the hope of calling you my wife !” “You are not reasonable, Maurice,” replied his betrothed. “If I am content to wait for better days, why should you repine? Is it not wiser cheerfully to accept things as they are, rather than brood over what they might have been? We are both young, and time will neither lessen our confidence in each other, nor prevent our enjoying happiness when it comes. You might do worse than copy ECORNIELIOOKS EO im